The Dog Walker

More Smiles from My Dogs

What Little Girls are Made Of

Hello Again!

First, I want to say I’m delighted that my double-skunk-strike story brought so many smiles. That was exactly my intent. Never have I received so many emails, and it was lovely to “meet” so many of you and hear your pet stories!

I have a similar anecdote for you today. Trigger warning: finish whatever you’re eating. It’s an appetite killer.

This story is about my lovely lady, Miss Mabel.

Because I was a relative dog novice when I chose Mabel five years ago, I had deluded myself that as a female, she would be a cleaner, more delicate version of Riggs. Sugar and spice and all things nice, right? That's what I heard growing up.

Riggs was very committed to being filthy, and particularly loved rolling in decomposing carcasses. Hot, rotten salmon was top choice for its oil content. Trust me when I say that smell really hangs around. It haunts you.

So, imagine my despair when pretty, big-eyed Mabel turned out to be the worst of the pair. First, she’s super competitive, so she’s always going to get to that corpse first. Second, she’s super bendy. Even at maturity, she can leap and contort herself in ways Riggs never could. So she can climb higher, slink into crevices and get that shoulder down faster than I can ever bellow those two words, “Leave it.” Third, and it pains me to say it, she's a little bit brighter than my boy. She can figure out how to get exactly what she wants. And she wants the stank.

Off leash hikes are far from soothing, as I have to be hyper-vigilant with Mabel. My delicate flower also eats EVERYTHING, including delicate flowers. She loves picking her way through my mom’s garden. We call her “old ironsides,” as she can digest pretty much anything. Happily she doesn’t eat objects likely to cause a blockage, e.g., socks. Her “drop it” command is good, as long as I’m on my game.

All of this to say my tolerance for stinky antics is high. I am no shrinking violet myself. I’ve taken what those dogs throw at me with a fair bit of aplomb and continue our hikes because, overall, it’s good for us.

The Last Straw…

But this past winter, I’m sorry to say that Mabel defeated me and Riggs had to pay for her misdeeds by forfeiting his adventures, too.

I had been sending the dogs out on off-leash “pack walks” to the beach for ages. In fact, I started sending Riggs out with dog-walker, Lindsay, when he was just five months old, about eight years ago. She’s reliable and when I was working downtown, it meant a lot to know they were getting out in good hands. Yes, there were incidents—dietary indiscretions, the aforementioned salmon rolls—but the pros outweighed the cons.

In January, a noxious new habit arose. One that I could not tolerate. Maybe my stamina is diminishing with age.

Here it is in a nutshell: poop rolling.

Although the ground was still covered in snow, Mabel managed to find fresh poop to work this feat. At first, she’d come home with a dirty jacket. I’d wash the jacket and start over. Then the poop crept up and over, covering her collar and neck. So I’d wash the jacket and the dog. Finally, one day I came home from work to find her with poop caked into her ears and head. Much of it had dried and flaked off around my freshly cleaned house.

It was the last straw. I had already expressed my concerns to Lindsay, but with six dogs in a big area, the only way to prevent this was to leash Mabel. Confining her would frustrate the dog and defeat the whole purpose of the off-leash walk. But coming home to that mess was defeating the purpose of a paid walk for me.

So after eight years, I made the difficult decision to break up with Lindsay. It was sad for both of us.

It happened right before the pandemic lockdown, so that helped ease the pain. We couldn’t have continued at that point anyway. I was home with the dogs all the time. I told myself that I was enough for them.

Keeping it Clean

Cut to last week. We’re out on our morning leash walk, which I really do enjoy, especially my spring garden circuit. A van pulls up abruptly and someone jumps out. Startled, I stopped in the middle of crossing the street. There was a sudden 80-pound tug at the end of the leashes and I lost my grip. Lindsay was dropping to her knees on the sidewalk. She got slammed hard enough by 80 lbs of frenzied fur to fall over on her back.

The. Dogs. Went. Nuts.

Never have I heard the howls of unadulterated joy that came out of Riggs. Then he tried to claw his way into her van and leave the scene with her. When she finally drove off, he would not move for five minutes and then whined and trembled all the way home. The next day, he stopped and waited for her at the same corner.

Clearly, I am not quite enough for my dogs. In fact, my mom, and Mr. Tech and my brother rank very highly with Riggs, but all of us are several notches below Lindsay.

So… Lindsay and I had a little chat. I said we could try occasional walks again, providing she avail herself of the hose and shampoo in the yard if the dogs roll. I will accept wet dogs in the house, but not poopy dogs. There is no need to pay for that, and I get enough double dog baths, thank you very much.

She agreed to my terms. The happy threesome had a successful outing and the dogs were thrilled, greeting old playmates in the van with yelps and licks.

Reunited and it feels so good… (Remember that song?)

This can likely only continue for “hose season,” much of which we spend at the cottage anyway. But perhaps Miss Mabel will forget her toxic habits by fall and we’ll see how it goes. I’m not holding my breath. Oh, wait. I am holding my breath. One of my talents is mouth-breathing, which I’ve needed to perfect with these two.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I’m ready to dive into writing the next Bought-the-Farm novel today, which is all plotted up and ready to roll. No, not that kind of roll!

If you ever wonder why Runaway Farm is so, er, fragrant, now you know that my real life is permeating my fiction. I can’t get away from it. But I wouldn’t if I could. As we all know, time with our furbabies is too short. I embrace whatever challenges they bring even on the days I can’t get close enough to embrace them. Eventually it wears off and our program of hugging resumes. Four hugs a day, two per dog. Minimum. That’s a commitment I make to my health that I actually keep, unlike my yearly resolution to take up yoga.

Now, excuse me while I go deliver some love to those living teddy bears!